My Computer is Killing Me

Paula Benge

I feed my computer

And spend time talking to it.

The carbon dioxide is good for it, right?

I try to be a good companion, you know, quality tine at meals, sensitive to its needs, constant touch.

But, ever since that one virus, it’s been acting different.

It’s slow to respond. I know it’s getting older, but it’s not that.

I think it’s hiding things from me.

It holds its black welcome screen longer, the little circle ticking, ticking, ticking, then it greets me like nothing happened.

The other evening, I shut it off like usual. But I got up in the middle of night and its little red eye was watching me from across the room.

I can’t keep this up much longer. How can you work with something you don’t trust? I’m leaving. But if you don’t hear from me tomorrow . . .  the computer did it.